Trouble Comes in Teas
by Lauren Order
Summary: Sherlock teams up with a childhood friend to solve a mystery. This acquaintance also happens to be a very influential friend of the government, and Sherlock is keeping a bigger secret about her. It's up to John to find out the truth. Sherlock/John, OC/?
1. Chapter 1

**_a/n: You may have noticed I haven't had a chance to update my other stories. Don't worry, there's going to be more of that, but the idea for this story has taken over my mind for quite some time, so I may just work on this for a while._**

**Trouble Comes in Teas**

Chapter 1

"You're going where?" John asked as Sherlock put on his coat and scarf and headed for the door.

"Tea. I've been invited to tea by a friend of mine."

"A _friend_ of yours? Really? I find that hard to believe." John teased.

"There was once a time when I had nothing better to do than talk to others. Of course, that time lasted maybe two weeks at most. See you later, John," Sherlock said as he left.

Sherlock was looking awfully spry. This must have been one incredible friend he was going to see.

* * *

><p>All of the women sitting in the parlour seemed a little bit on edge. There was supposedly a great visitor coming to join them for tea today, which was out of the ordinary for their "simple" club.<p>

One of the ladies, younger than the rest, sat at the head of the elegantly furnished table, lounging slightly in her luxury chair. She smirked with the knowledge that their visitor was certainly going to be an interesting one. After all, he was _the _Sherlock Holmes.

The women were chattering amongst themselves nervously when Sherlock burst through the double doors to the parlour. His mysterious, lanky appearance and the way he carried himself took the members of the club by surprise.

"Good afternoon, ladies. I'm Sherlock Holmes. It's wonderful to be able to join you today," he said, introducing himself whilst slightly hopping into the empty chair adjacent to the woman at the head of the table.

Everyone immediately started murmuring, wondering why Sherlock had been invited in the first place. This was, after all, a women's club.

"Excuse me, everyone. Please show a little… courtesy… towards our guest?" the woman in charge asked the group. "I'll explain soon enough."

The women stopped and stared at both her and Sherlock.

"All right, as most of you know, I'm Abigail Lucas, the president of this chapter of the Ladies' Reformed Diogenes Club. Today, I've decided to take us one step further to achieving 'intellectual nirvana,' as I like to put it, by giving you all an insight into one of the greatest minds in London." the woman in charge explained.

"I'm sorry, Abby, but who is this man, and how could he possibly have a greater mind than yours?" asked one woman.

"I'm flattered, really, but you must understand. Sherlock Holmes is the leading expert on solving crimes. Scotland Yard need his help all the time. Believe me when I say this man has an unparalleled knack for coming to conclusions that are one hundred percent spot on," Abigail answered.

"Abigail tends to overstate the underlying truth," Sherlock cut in. "I am not the leading expert. I am the leading consulting detective. I'm not an amateur, but I wouldn't consider myself an expert either. I just look for the facts and deduce the truth."

"Oh, shut up. You're an expert, whether you like it or not."

"All right, then. It's been decided. I'm an expert," Sherlock said, shrugging.

Abigail cleared her throat. "Now then. Where shall we start… I know! International identity cues. Those are quite important for our line of work," she said, winking at the group.

They then began an in-depth discussion on how to recognise certain aspects of a person's personality and appearance, make significant discoveries about his or her life, and then draw conclusions in relation to a related matter. They discussed other topics in the same manner, and Sherlock would always point them in the right direction in order to figure out the exact "science of deduction".

After about an hour of discussion, they decided to break for tea.

"How have you been, Sherlock? I forgot to ask earlier because your lecture was so intriguing," Abigail said.

"I've been fine. Just doing what I normally do."

"I heard you have a new flatmate. And he's an army doctor," Abigail whispered slyly.

"What's that supposed to mean? Yes, he is an army doctor," Sherlock said.

"It's funny, you don't pick up on any of my social cues, but if I miss a word or twitch my head or something like that, you always bother me about it!" she complained.

"Correction: I pick up on them, but I just choose to ignore them. Because usually they're pointless."

"God, I've missed you. If only ninety-nine percent of the population had half as much sense as you," Abigail sighed.

"Then what? What would happen? You left your statement with a hanging dependent clause," Sherlock said, correcting her.

Abigail fell into Sherlock's arms for a giant hug. "Mmmm… you are the most adorable person ever!" she said, half mumbling into his shirt.

"You're not acting very professional right now," he chided.

"I don't care. I really don't."

Sherlock quickly glanced at Abigail's left hand. There was still no ring. This would make matters more complicated. He had been informed, albeit unreliably, of a completely different situation…

"Listen. I think you should probably meet my flatmate, actually. He's different than all the other people I used to casually socialise with," Sherlock told Abigail.

"Oh, really? Is he… the _one_?" she asked.

"I don't know… I wish you'd stop with that hinting… it gets embarrassing," Sherlock muttered, his face turning slightly red.

"I'd love to meet him, no matter what your relationship status is right now," Abigail said, winking. She winked too much, Sherlock noted.

* * *

><p>Later, both of them travelled back to 221B to give John a proper introduction to Sherlock's friend.<p>

"Wait, Sherlock, _this _is your friend?" John asked incredulously as Abigail entered the room and Sherlock introduced her. "No offence, but I was imagining one of your schoolmates or something."

"Well, I am his childhood friend. Not necessarily a schoolmate, but I might as well have been," Abigail answered.

John took Sherlock aside for a moment. "Sherlock, why did you never tell me that you knew this girl before? She is incredibly attractive, and I would have greatly appreciated meeting her earlier."

"I'm not sure if she's available, if that's what you're implying. That's why I brought her back here in the first place. I need you to figure out her personal life for me."

"What? Like hell, I'll do that for you! I already claimed her as soon as she walked in the room!" John whispered angrily.

"It's not for _my _sake, idiot! There's something more important at stake."

John just stood there looking like a sad kitten.

"Would you stop taking the whole 'idiot' thing seriously? I didn't mean it," Sherlock said. He glanced up to see Abigail behind John's back, making faces and gesturing as if she were pushing John closer to him. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, I'd like to know what you even do for a living that requires you to go to two-hour-long tea parties," John asked Abigail, walking back towards her.

"They are _not_ tea parties, they're business meetings. Business of the highest importance. And I can't be bothered giving that information to just anyone. However, since you're Sherlock's friend … I'll make an exception. I work for the Ladies' Reformed Diogenes Club. While it may sound like a club of leisure, it's actually a high-ranking government agency. We're considered the 'diplomatic' chapter, dealing with international crime and affairs," explained Abigail.

"Was that safe to tell me?" John asked, looking a bit confused.

"Yes, she asked ahead of time if it was all right, so there's no need to worry about a breach of confidentiality," Sherlock said.

"In that case, may I ask what your specific function is in the group? You seem like a very intelligent woman, and I would imagine you have a fairly high rank," John said.

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me, darling. But I'll answer your question nonetheless. Specifically, I act as consultant and overall president of the chapter. I make sure everyone is doing what they're supposed to, and they go out in the field and collect data. They come back and interpret the data, but when they need to _connect_ data, that's where I come in. I guess technically, my career could be labelled as being a logician. I make plans and theories for our operations based on logical connections I find. If that makes any sense."

"So, you're like an official version of Sherlock, then," John said, chuckling.

"Pretty much." Abigail smirked at Sherlock, who just glared at John.

"There's actually much more involved with her job, but even I can't figure out what exactly she has to do," Sherlock said, puzzled.

"And that's the way we like to keep it," Abigail said.

At that moment, a mobile phone started ringing.

"Oh, it's mine. Excuse me for a second," Abigail said, stepping out into the corridor.

As soon as she exited the room, John walked back over to Sherlock.

"Can you not see how _hot_ she is? Really? Ugh, and her job is being a logician… I can't handle this anymore. You've got to set us up!"

"I already told you, John. That's your mission. Consider yourself already 'set up' with her. I scheduled a date for you two while we were on the way over here. Just don't get too attached," Sherlock said.

John just stood there with his mouth open, at a loss for words.

Suddenly, Abigail reappeared at the doorway. "Sherlock!" she shouted urgently. "Something's happened back at the club. How could I have been so stupidly led astray?"

"What? What's happened?" Sherlock asked.

"There's been a murder, obviously. What else would have happened during a meeting with an esteemed guest such as yourself?" Abigail snapped.

"Why are you blaming yourself, though?" John interrupted.

"Because it's my responsibility to oversee the general security of the club, as well. We have the best security detail on patrol at all times; I don't see how this could have happened." Abigail had gone from being Sherlock's upbeat friend to a cold, calculating government official.

"I thought you said there was perfect attendance. Nobody left in the middle of the meeting…" Sherlock said, thinking carefully.

"… but tea was a different story. After we'd had a few cups of tea, a few of the ladies left because they'd had another important event to attend. One of them had to have been the victim," Abigail deduced.

"I'd wager you're right about that. Once we've inspected the crime scene, more information will be available so we can track down the murderer," Sherlock said excitedly.

"And then… we bring him to justice!" Abigail had a sparkle in her eye that suggested that she had as much of a love as Sherlock for the science of deduction.

"Not you, too," John sighed. "I feel like the only normal one around here nowadays."

"John, you're coming with us, whether you want to or not," Abigail commanded.

"Yes, ma'am! I wouldn't dare go against a government order!" he said, rolling his eyes.

Abigail and Sherlock raced out the door together, the ends of their similar scarves fluttering behind them. John made sure the flat was locked up properly and ran off after them.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When they got there, the entire building as well as the surrounding area had already been roped off by the police.

"Great," Sherlock said, exasperated.

"What? You're looking like you're in one of those moods again," Abigail told him.

"It's just… _Anderson_."

"Yeah, he doesn't really get on too well with Anderson," John tried explaining.

"And neither do I. You think I've never worked with the police before?" Abigail said rather condescendingly.

"No, no, I mean… of course… erm… you know far more than I do…" John mumbled, trying to deflect attention from himself.

Sure enough, as they went up to the door of the building, Anderson was there to greet them.

"Wow, Sherlock, you have an even bigger group every time I see you," he sneered.

"He's finally found some fellow freaks, that's all," Sgt Donovan said as she passed by.

Abigail seemed completely unaffected by any of these remarks as she showed her identification to Anderson. "You understand that my rank allows me to freely traverse the crime scene with my associates. That means Sherlock and Dr Watson are free to investigate," she told him.

"I suppose that's the case… I don't even have any idea how a girl like you ended up with those credentials," Anderson said, being incredibly obnoxious.

For what seemed like the longest time, Abigail just stood and stared at Anderson with an icy glare. "Come along, Sherlock," she finally spat out, clearly infuriated.

They entered the foyer of the building to find investigators bustling about, inspecting and photographing possible evidence.

"I was really quite frightened back there," John whispered to Abigail. "You looked like you were about to cause another crime scene."

"Don't worry… there will be a swift, terrible revenge eventually. But Anderson thinks I'm a pushover right now… all the better, because then he won't be expecting what's to come."

John shuddered at the thought of what Abigail could possibly have in mind.

"Oh, come on. It's not going to be that bad. I'll just add vinegar to his drink or something. I wouldn't _dare_ do anything that would be detrimental to our police force," Abigail said, laughing. "Anderson certainly has that department covered already!"

John chuckled nervously, already regretting his need to be involved with another one of Sherlock's acquaintances. Were all of them this dangerous and unpredictable? Furthermore, Abigail was treating Sherlock like an inferior. Was she smarter than him? Or was she simply older and/or held a higher authority? This woman was such an enigma.

The corpse was fairly easy to find. The woman was sprawled on the ground, surrounded by shards of broken glass. At first glance, it looked like she had jumped through a window, especially because the main architectural feature of the foyer, an indoor balcony with a (currently shattered) glass window, was located right above the woman.

"Go ahead, John. You first," Sherlock said.

"Um… ok. You want me to tell you the cause of death?" John asked.

"And whatever else you find. The usual process."

"Right, of course, how could I possibly forget?" John stammered as he immediately started examining the body.

"Don't mind him; he's a little out of his element right now," Sherlock told Abigail.

"Hey! I heard that!"

Abigail just laughed to herself, amused at John's flustered manner.

"Anyway, cause of death seems to be… not from the fall. Marks on the neck suggest she was asphyxiated. Then, I would assume, thrown through this window to try and cover up the real cause," John said.

"If someone attempted, and furthermore, actually committed, a murder in this building, they most certainly did not expect to 'cover up' anything except their identity. That means they would be concerned with self-incriminating evidence only. Therefore, there has to be another reason why they would throw her through the window," Abigail reasoned.

John realised that not once so far did Abigail even give a thought to who the victim was. Obviously this woman must have been part of the club, so was Abigail emotionally immune to seeing one of her co-workers killed?

"Sherlock, why don't you have a go? It'll save us all the time and effort we would have wasted by not thinking, anyway," John said, gesturing towards the body.

"What do you mean, _we_?" Abigail said, frowning at John. He recoiled slightly, at which point her frown eased into a smile and then a wink. "Please, don't take me so seriously, darling."

She had such strange habits. Perhaps she was just a strange person. John knew how Sherlock could get at times, so he expected that Sherlock's friends were fairly similar in eccentricities.

"Anyway, Sherlock, please do enlighten us. There's a reason why I invited you to our meeting this morning, after all. Let's see the genius in action!" Abigail said.

"You're too kind…" Sherlock trailed off, already deep in thought as he circled around the body. He poked and prodded and measured and searched every single pocket or suspicious area. Then he stepped back and looked up at the window.

"Have you figured it out yet?" John asked.

"Patience," Sherlock responded. He turned to face John. "Have you always been like this, or is this new? The whole interrupting to try and look impressive part, I mean."

"I could ask you the same thing," John retorted, blushing.

"But you know what the answer would be to that question, so that would be entirely pointless," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Anyway. The case at hand is all that matters. I need to ask you something, Abby."

"Yes?" Abigail said, clearly intrigued by the whole thing.

"This woman… who was she? What was her position? At least as far as you can divulge without breaking confidentiality. Most importantly, was she foreign?"

"Well, yes, she did happen to be foreign. If you count American to be enough of a foreigner for you. On loan from the CIA. Her name was Patricia Mantle," Abigail explained.

"How long had she been here?" Sherlock asked.

"Not very long. Maybe two weeks at most; I hardly knew her. That makes it much harder to determine any motives… I can only assume it had something to do with her work in the CIA."

"But we don't assume. We deduce. Nothing is for certain until we find evidence. Don't jump to conclusions; you might send the police down the wrong trail," Sherlock said.

"They're already headed there, anyway, due to Anderson's focus on the investigation of the surrounding blocks. Normally, there would be nothing wrong with that. But this time, it's quite obvious that the entire thing took place inside this building," Abigail stated.

"I was just about to ask why we weren't looking outside for evidence," John said. "After all, look! She has her sunglasses in her pocket. And it looks like they were stuffed there hastily. Here's how I think it must have happened. She was outside, headed to her next appointment. She had on her sunglasses because today the sun has been shining brightly. But then she heard something behind her. The killer, obviously. So she quickly took off her sunglasses to get a closer look at what she heard. And then, the killer… killed her. Or something like that."

"I liked it better when you didn't try to come up with theories, John. Now Anderson has some competition for the title of 'biggest distraction'," Sherlock complained. "Abby just said that it was obvious that the murder took place here. Why did you think it would be a good idea to disprove her?"

"Oh, now you're on her side all the time! I see how it is," John yelled, turning away from Sherlock and crossing his arms.

"Could the both of you stop being so stupid and childish and just listen? John, if you don't see why the murder took place here, I'd be glad to explain. You gave it a valiant effort," Abigail said, trying to console him.

"I don't need your sympathy," John muttered. "But continue, please."

"He's so cute when he's angry! But don't tell him I said that," Abigail whispered to Sherlock. Sherlock almost lost his composure for a second after hearing her comment, but quickly recovered.

"Yes," she continued aloud. "She does happen to have sunglasses in her pocket. But that means nothing. Look carefully at the scene and the only thing that seems amiss is the surprisingly good condition of one item: the sunglasses. Note that they are not broken at all, despite the fact that she was apparently thrown from the window above. That would imply that the sunglasses were placed in her pocket after the deed had been done."

"I see," John said.

"But it still doesn't make sense. If the murderer was on that floor and threw the victim down to this floor, there would be no reason to come all the way down here just to place the glasses in her pocket. I'd personally have been more concerned with getting the hell out of here," Abigail concluded.

"You made a few errors," Sherlock said. "You immediately assumed the murderer was the one who placed the glasses there. Also, you said the glasses were in good condition. It's true that they're not shattered, but they are most certainly dented. And, most importantly, they don't belong to the victim."

Abigail just looked at Sherlock in stunned silence.

Sherlock checked his watch. "Right, John, remember earlier today I told you about that appointment? Well, the reservations are scheduled for 15 minutes from now, so you'd better head out. It's at that one place… with the _candle_. You remember."

John glanced over at Abigail, who seemed to know exactly what was going on. "I, uh- are you ready to go?" John asked her.

"Whenever you are," she said with a cheerful smile that indicated this was to be a platonic date. Purely platonic. _That's how everything appears at first, though,_ John thought, thinking back to one day when Sherlock had used the phrase "purely platonic," and how different things were ending up now.

"Good luck," Abigail told Sherlock. She and John left together, trying to avoid Anderson's glare on the way out.

Sherlock looked back at the crime scene. He still needed to gather a few more clues, but at least now he was on the right track. He was certain his conclusions about the sunglasses had been correct. Could neither Abigail nor John see that it had been a pair of _men's _sunglasses? Honestly.


End file.
